


Seen

by hestia_lacey



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-28
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_lacey/pseuds/hestia_lacey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is my (shamelessly porny) solution to the the formula (John Sheppard + control chair) + Rodney Mckay = what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melagan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melagan/gifts).



Rodney never looks at him like this.

When John’s in the chair and laid back like this, Rodney’s eyes slip right over the space he fills, always averted, consciously, carefully downcast.

Rodney talks to Radek, to the underside of a console, to the tablet cradled in the curve of one arm but never to John, speaking with an unerring focus on something – anything – else. It’s Radek who gives John his instructions, talks him through processes, debriefs him later.

It shouldn’t matter like it does, only.

Only John can’t help but wonder.

Because out of everyone, Rodney’s the one who never backs down. Out of all the people John has ever known, Rodney is the one who knows _him_ like nobody else, who’ seen him naked, stripped bare in every way, in every detail. There’s nothing he doesn’t know of John and he’s never looked away, not once. But Rodney never looks at him when he’s like this, and John can’t help wondering why.

When John asked, he wanted it to be a casual line, nothing that would raise any eyebrows. It didn’t go anything like he wanted.

“Rodney.”

“Hmm?”

“Rodney.”

“What?”

“Hey, Rodney.”

“ _What_?”

“Would you just – would you look at me?”

Rodney was shocked into stillness by the question, but had gone quickly back to work. “Later,” Rodney had said, whispered into the back of the chair as he switched crystals, rerouted a circuit, eyes fixed and unwavering on the control interface.

“Rodney - “

“I’ll show you,” Rodney hissed, grip white-knuckled on a soldering iron, “I’ll show you, John. Later.”

John has worried over it all afternoon, all through the evening shift, stomach twisting itself into knots over the riddle of ‘I’ll show you’ and what it might mean, over the vibration in Rodney’s voice as it slid through ‘later,’ the way it made John shiver.

He’d worried over what it might be that Rodney can’t look at, what it might mean.

Of all the things he’d thought about, none of them were this.

This is Rodney’s room, blinds drawn to shut out the moon and the glow from the windows of the overlooking towers, entirely dark except for a pool of white-gold light cast by the single fixture Rodney has alight high in the ceiling.

This is Rodney’s desk chair set in the spotlight, the black leather recliner he bought as soon as he could bribe the cargo space on the _Deadalus_ all those years ago. It’s set back at an angle that John recognises, an incline he can still feel in his spine, sense memory of the day’s tests in the control room.

This is Rodney, stepping forward to pull John in through the open door by his jacket, pressing him slowly, gently back against it as the panels slip shut.

Rodney’s hands slide up to John’s shoulders, hold them down against the metal at his back; John lets him push like he always does, pliant as ever in Rodney’s hands despite the way he’d worried, the way he’d imagined himself into nervousness at the thought of coming here. This is not new - this is a well-worn space for him to fit into, familiar.

Rodney’s palms slide over the curve of John’s collarbones, stroking smooth, fingers curling over the open front of his jacket, curling inside, pushing up against John’s chest; Rodney’s eyes catch John’s, stay fixed on them as he presses himself in, leans forward to lick a kiss into John’s mouth. John pushes back against Rodney on instinct, but both of them know it has nothing to do with getting away and everything to do with getting closer. John feels himself hardening under Rodney’s hands, doesn’t quite understand how this fits with what Rodney promised to show him, but can’t quite care about it when he has this.

John opens under Rodney’s mouth, fits his body to the push and tug of Rodney’s hands; his jacket falls away behind him, shushing to the floor as Rodney pulls him away from the door, starts to walk them across the room, mouth still wet and slick on John’s. When Rodney’s fingers reach the hem of his shirt sleeves, smooth down the skin of his arms, John shudders, gasps into the kiss.

“Rodney - ” he rasps, wants to ask _what_ and _why_ and _please_. Rodney breaks away from John’s mouth in response, reaches down to tug up the hem of John’s t-shirt; the black of it blots out John’s words as it’s pulled roughly over his head, dropped away into the darkness around them.

Rodney licks a line up John’s throat, nips at the spot just under John’s ear that makes his hips jolt into Rodney’s, his skin pull tight across his flesh, every nerve turned on by the scrape of Rodney’s mouth, the heat of his breath over that one place. “No talking,” Rodney insists, a whisper into the hollow behind John’s ear. Rodney lets his teeth graze that spot again, and John couldn’t find words if he wanted to. Instead he twists his fingers into the fabric of Rodney’s t-shirt, holds on when Rodney’s mouth finds his again.

Absorbed as John is in the overwhelming sense of Rodney impressing on him, John doesn’t realise that they’ve made their way across the room until the light set in the ceiling blazes across the black of his closed eyelids. It’s then that John remembers the chair, the way it’s framed in the spotlight, remembers what Rodney had promised - _“I’ll show you.”_

Breaking away from Rodney’s mouth, John opens his eyes and finds himself staring down into Rodney’s, blue and intense and laser focussed. One of Rodney’s arms winds around John’s waist as he stands; the other reaching over John’s shoulder. His eyes are on John, unwavering like they never are in the chair room; John’s breath catches at the heat in them. As Rodney takes a step forward, John takes a step back and finds the backs of his knees pressed to the low seat of the recliner.

“Like this,” Rodney says, then steps forward again, arm tight around John’s waist, the other reaching back to brace against the leather of the chair as he lowers John into the incline of the backrest; John’s arms are loose around Rodney’s waist, trusting Rodney, the strength in him that people so often forget he has to put him safely back. They come to a stop with John laid back in the slant of the chair, Rodney braced over him.

“I’ll show you, John,” Rodney whispers, eyes flickering over John’s face, then he takes John’s mouth up in a soft, careful kiss.

Taking John’s wrists in his hands, Rodney shifts John’s hands deliberately to the arm rests, presses his palms flat against the cool material. Then, slowly, carefully, Rodney slides down John’s body; John spreads his legs to let him slip to the floor and realises as he does so that this, _this_ is how he’s spread out in the control chair, splayed exactly so.

The light above him is bright, bright enough that when John looks down, he sees a gilded outline of Rodney kneeling between his spread legs, palms cupping the jut of John’s knees, short hair a glowing halo around his head. It’s breathtaking, enough to make John stutter on his inhale.

When Rodney licks his lips, they shine gold-limned, the twist of them highlighted perfectly and John can’t help the moan he makes – he knows how Rodney’s mouth can be on him, the way it can make him feel.

Kneeling up with a faint, upward slanting smile at John’s reaction, Rodney reaches forwards and sets his hands to John’s belt. As he works the clasp loose, John shifts under the press and brush of fingers. As the buckle comes open, Rodney lets his hands drift to John’s waistband, curl into the belt loops.

Pushing up further, Rodney licks along the fly of John’s pants, tongues the skin at the hem, then slides up against the grain of the hair on John’s stomach to John’s navel. John’s grip on the armrests is white knuckled, and he has to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep the sounds clawing at the back of his throat down where they should be, to hold back the things he might want to say because _no talking_.

Rodney sets his mouth to the skin below John’s navel. “Close your eyes, John,” he says, and while it’s soft to hear the vibration of the words is a jagged edge of heat, spikes up John’s spine, arousal a starburst of sensation sparking out through his limbs. His eyes close right away, head falling back hard against the headrest.

John feels Rodney slide back down, the flex of his fingers in John’s belt loops. Rodney’s muscles tense, a momentary tension, and that’s all the warning John has before a single hard tug has his pants and underwear yanked right down his hips to tangle below his knees. John’s hands grip tight to the chair on reflex. The strength in the movement, the friction of the fabric against his cock makes John cry out, has him shaking a little with the riptide of sensation sweeping over his nerves.

“Shhh,” Rodney soothes, pressing a close-mouthed kiss to the naked skin of each of John’s knees, hands loosing the knots of John’s laces, pushing boots and socks and cloth clean away so John is naked, spread out like in the chair room but not like he’s ever been there. _I’ll show you_ Rodney had said. John thinks he’s starting to understand.

While John is panting through the press of Rodney’s lips to the inside of each knee, Rodney steps back. The absence of his hands, his mouth, pushes a frustrated sound up out of John’s throat.

“Just – I’ll be, just a minute,” Rodney soothes, voice sounding muffled. There’s a sound like the shift of damp cotton over skin, and then Rodney is back between John’s legs, hands running up the backs of John’s calves, the insides of his thighs to press fingertips light at the seam between leg and groin.

“I said I’d show you,” he pants, leaning in to run the point of his tongue over the place his fingers press. John’s breath catches in his throat at the _hotwetslick_ of Rodney’s mouth, the way his breath swirls damp over his dick.

“This is what I think about,” Rodney murmurs, nosing down to lick up under John’s balls, mouth each one of them gently, suck at the sensitive skin. John’s hips twitch at the touch of Rodney’s lips, and he has to make an effort to keep his hands pressed flat where Rodney wants them. When Rodney takes one into his mouth, sucks strong, John keens, tosses his head like he might deny the pleasure if Rodney gave him the choice.

“Jesus, look at you,” Rodney gasps, licking once over the head of John’s cock, “do you have any idea what you look like? You’re just...” Rodney can’t finish, because he’s slipped his lips tight over the leaking crown of John’s dick, is sliding down the length of him, pulling back, going down: _up, down_ , the motion incendiary, lifting John’s hips up away from sweat-slick leather.

The motion is slow, rhythm maddeningly regular, measured in a way that builds John’s pleasure but never lets it peak. It rolls over and over, on and on, until John is thrashing against the leather, moaning out Rodney’s name without meaning too.

The way Rodney’s mouth fits to him, the way he works his tongue over all the places that drive John insane, the flick of it, the catch of teeth over the sensitive spot under the head, the pressure – it’s exquisite, too perfect for John to stand.

Rodney pulls back, wraps one hand around John’s spit-slick cock just before John would start begging for something, Christ, _anything_ , more, wraps the other around the jut of John’s hip. In the back of John’s head, somewhere behind the haze of pleasure, John feels a familiar buzz start up, a sound like Atlantis.

“I said I’d show you,” Rodney says, lips against John’s navel again, jacking John slowly as he speaks. “I want you to see. Open your eyes, John.”

Rodney’s hand stills, his mouth presses a dry kiss to John’s stomach, and John fights to open his eyes.

When he does, he meets his own glazed, pleasure dazed eyes, dark under the light that catches on his skin, in the beads of sweat dappling his brow, his chest. He sees his own spread legs, dark framing the pale canvas of Rodney’s back, the curving sweep of Rodney’s spine, the curl of his hand around the purpled head of John’s cock, shiny where it slips though thick fingers. It takes him a moment to realise what it is he’s seeing, and when he does his mind whites out momentarily.

“Look at you,” Rodney says, moving his hand again, excrutiatingly slow. In the mirror, John watches the way his dick slides too-slow through Rodney’s fist, watches his own toes curl at the sensation.

“Look at yourself,” Rodney says again, moving back to his knees between John’s legs, hooking his hands around John’s calves and guiding them over Rodney’s shoulders. Rodney nips a path down from John’s ribs to his cock, dips his tongue to swirl into John’s belly button and then dips his head to lip at John’s cock, slide his mouth back down the length of it.

In the mirror, John watches Rodney’s head move, mesmerised by the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck; John knows the way those curls feel in his fingers, but has never seen them like this, framed by the cross of John’s own ankles.

He watches the muscles of Rodney’s back, the way they bunch and release as he bobs his head, the way the movement directs John’s gaze to his waist to the curves of Rodney’s ass, still clothed. Rodney’s shoulders are broad, John knows that, but they’ve never looked quite like this; John likes the way they bear the weight of his legs, the stretch of them beneath the hook of his knees . Rodney’s arms wrap under John’s legs, his hips, lift him to meet the motion of his head; it feels good, so good to be wrapped up in Rodney, held down by him.

John is aware of his own reflection, gazing rapt into the mirror. But he’s barely aware of his own image, only the parts of it that frame Rodney.

If this is what Rodney thinks about, if this is what he sees when John is in that chair, John can understand exactly why Rodney can’t look at him. After this, John doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sit there again without thinking of this, of the pale, compelling curve of Rodney’s back, the way he moves over John.

One of Rodney’s hands slides back from under John’s hips; John watches as the movement in the mirror, the clench and release of muscle matches to the sensation of skin dragging against sweat-damp skin, the fumble of a hand between John’s raised legs, push of fingers up behind his balls.

What he doesn’t see, what he can’t see from here, is how Rodney presses his finger hard against John’s perineum, the way the finger slides back, up, slips into the opening to John’s body, just the tip. He can see what it does to him though; in the mirror, he watches his own back arch, hips lifted up, hands flying over his head to scrabble at the headrest when they slick off the slippery leather under his palms.

“Oh, oh yes,” John rasps, forgetting _no talking_ along with all the other things outside of this, canting his hips forward, rocking up into the relentless, hot suck of Rodney’s mouth around his cock and back onto his finger, pushing hard until Rodney’s whole finger is pressed up inside.

When Rodney adds another finger, scissoring in torturously slow, John goes very quietly out of his mind at the way it feels, the way it is to fuck himself up into the familiar, reddened curl of Rodney’s mouth and down onto the thrust of his fingers, and to watch every single movement Rodney makes in the mirror.

He’s mindless with this, gone in the pleasure of it; John’s hands are white-knuckled on the head-rest of the recliner and his rhythm is lost. There’s just Rodney, the thrust and suck of him, the feel of him, to bring John over.

And it’s enough, it’s always enough: John feels the orgasm build in him, spill over from the place it’s pooling at the base of his spine, wash over him until he’s drowned in pleasure, can’t breathe for the way it fills his lungs.

Rodney’s mouth on him, the hard press of his fingers up inside are all he has to anchor him down.

When he comes back to himself it’s to see Rodney looking up at him, seeming every inch as devastated by John’s pleasure as John himself. At the corner of his mouth is a spot of semen, John’s come on his mouth.

“Jesus, Rodney,” John whispers, reaching down with one unsteady hand to slick it away. “Here,” John says, sliding his legs off Rodney’s shoulders but keeping them spread, “just, come here.”

Rodney blinks, once, and then rises up between John’s spread legs, yanking at his belt, his fly as he stands.

“Can I – I want t-to - ” Rodneys says, stuttering over his words when he frees his cock.

John can’t catch enough breath to say anything, so he hooks his legs over the arms of the chair instead, cants his hips up.

“Oh my god,” Rodney says, falling forward to brace himself over John’s body, his own hand going to his cock, stroking firm and even like John knows is good for him. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.”

John raises an eyebrow, pulls Rodney further into the open vee of his legs by hooking his calf over the curve of Rodney’s ass. _Well?_ John asks, with the tilt of his head. Rodney’s mouth twists with frustration and he shakes his head. “Don’t have anything,” he protests, “and anyway. There is no way, just no way I’ll last that long after – oh – after _that_.”

John smiles then, leans up to catch the nape of Rodney’s neck in the cup of his hand, brings them together for a kiss that’s dirty and messy, lets Rodney fuck into his mouth.

It doesn’t take more than that for Rodney: with a high whine muffled into John’s mouth, Rodney comes, spurting through his fist and over John’s stomach, his spread legs. Watching him, the way he braces himself against his pleasure over John, the feel and scent of his come on John’s skin is erotic and sensual like John never would have thought it could be before Rodney.

As he shakes through the last of his orgasm, John yanks him down into his lap; Rodney sprawls over him in the recliner with a soft moan. John likes the weight of him, and thinks that he might want to frame the image they make in the mirror behind Rodney.

“Now do you get it?” Rodney whispers into the shell of John’s ear.

“I think so,” John hedges with a smile, pressing his cheek into Rodney’s hair. “Could do with another explanation though. Just, y’know, to make sure.”

“You,” Rodney says, nipping hard at John’s collarbone, the closest thing to his mouth.

John laughs, “me,” he manages around the giggle he can’t help when Rodney jabs a finger into his ribs.

Rodney lifts his head, mirrors John’s smile right back at him.

Rodney is looking at him. It feels good to be seen.


End file.
